


The Naughty List

by queen_jadis



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Smut, Consensual Kink, Domestic Discipline, Friends to Lovers, Holidays, M/M, Punishment, Safe Sane and Consensual, Spanking, the moroccan slipper
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-22 16:41:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16601702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queen_jadis/pseuds/queen_jadis
Summary: John doesn't have the best memories of Christmas. He has therefore decided to reclaim the holiday cheer by systematically going through various traditions. There is only one problem: Sherlock bloody Holmes.John makes a deal with his Grinch of a flatmate. He makes a list of five holiday related tasks he would like them to do together and if Sherlock complies he will get a reward. If he doesn't... well, there will be consequences.Unexpectedly, Sherlock seems much more motivated by the consequences than the rewards.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Updates on Sundays!
> 
> This fic ignores baby Watson completely. Sorry, Rosie!

John thought it was perfectly obvious why he needed a little extra dose of holiday cheer this year.

He felt that he deserved the full experience. He wanted freshly baked cookies (made from readymade dough - he was ambitious, not insane), he wanted Christmas music, he wanted fairy lights, he wanted Christmas markets, he wanted hand-written wish lists, he wanted roasted chestnuts and he wanted a live Christmas tree.

He almost wanted to go to an ice-skating rink but that idea stranded on him not having a suitable partner for the venture, and middled aged men on their own in the skating rink were members of a demography John preferred to avoid.

But the rest of it was hardly too much to ask?

There is comfort in rituals and there is nothing quite as ritualised as Christmas.

The only thing John didn't get was why Sherlock needed to be such a little shit about it.

He scoffed when John ordered himself a cinnamon latte at Starbucks.

He made fun of the chocolate chip cookies - and then proceeded to eat them all during the middle of the night.

John even suspected him of eating the wrapping paper, because that was the only explanation for how quickly it seemed to be disappearing.

But still, John made do. He trudged on, hell-bent on holiday cheer. He couldn't even understand why Sherlock was being such a Grinch about it - he hadn't been the last time they'd been living together. But now he seemed to have an angry bee in his holiday bonnet.

“John, I'm... I'm terribly sorry to have to inform you, but Father Christmas...” Sherlock faked wiping a tear from his cheek. “He... He didn't make it. I'm sorry. The… It was the laws of physics that got him in the end. It was… It was ugly, I’m told.”

John, who was putting up their stockings on the mantelpiece, glared.

And then he glared again, every morning after that, when Sherlock gleefully pointed out the coal someone had taken great pleasure in placing inside John’s stocking.

John made some feeble attempts to find Sherlock’s secret stock of coal, but to no avail.

At the Yard's Christmas Party everyone got roaring drunk on mulled wine, which was a colossally stupid idea, considering how much mulled wine you need to consume in order to get properly drunk. Meaning that everyone was both quite drunk and faintly nauseated.

Sherlock stood in a corner of the room and made deductions - mainly about how long it would be until particular members of the force would vomit.

John didn't find that it added to his holiday cheer.

“Sherlock, I'm sure the answer seems perfectly obvious to you - but indulge me. _Why_ are you trying to ruin Christmas?” he asked. He took care not to sound mad, because he didn’t want to start a row, just curious.

“I'm not. I'm merely pointing out the factors that are already in place, clear to steer the whole thing into its inevitable destruction.”

“The inevitable destruction of Christmas?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, stop it. This is a nice party, the walk home will be lovely in the dark with the lights and tonight is a _good night_. Could you just... I don't know. Don't be a prick? I wouldn't want to have to put you on my naughty list.” John winked at Sherlock who ducked his head and... Blushed?

John shrugged it off as he winced in sympathy as Donovan struggled past them, looking vaguely green and heading for the loos.

* * *

The next morning John had a nice lie-in and then put on a brand new pair of holiday socks, shrugged on his dressing gown and made his way downstairs.

He found his flatmate where he was busy writing case notes on John’s fresh stack of blank Christmas cards.

John rubbed his temples.

“Okay, Scrooge. We need to talk.”

Sherlock grunted.

John grabbed one of the kitchen chairs and slammed it on the floor with a loud bang when he repositioned it. Sherlock twitched at the sound.

“I’ve told you that this is important to me. And I’d like to have your help in celebrating this holiday, okay?”

Sherlock said nothing.

“Are you with me?”

“Why? You’ll do it regardless.”

“Yeah, but I’d like your help.” John purposefully didn’t use the word family, but it was there, just at the tip of his tongue and he imagined that Sherlock could sense it lurking there.

“You’re not even religious.”

“It’s not about that,” John said patiently.

Sherlock said nothing.

John was still a bit hung over, he hadn’t had anything for breakfast and he would like to get through this conversation and carry on with his Sunday. With proper holiday cheer, thank you very much.

“Sherlock, I am going to set some aims for this Christmas, okay? There are some basic things I'd like to achieve, and I'd prefer it if you helped me achieve them.”

Sherlock didn't even reply.

John continued, undeterred.

“I think that you'll get a reward if you'll help me, is that agreeable?”

Sherlock mumbled something from his chair.

“What was that?”

“I said: I'm not a child.”

“No, but you're still human,” John said, “as much as you like to pretend that you're not. Humans work in a pretty simple way. When we do something and the result is pleasant, we'll likely do it again. So I'll give you a reward for helping me make our home nice and pleasant during December, and you'll get something you'll like in return. In addition to all the niceness the experiment will create in and of itself. Therefore - you'll probably be more willing to do this again next Christmas. It's a win-win situation.”

Again Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible from the chair.

“Sorry?”

“I said it's not an experiment. Not a proper one. Are you even sure you got a proper classical education as a physician, John? You should, even after all these years, retain even a hazy notion of what qualifies as an experiment.”

“Oy, did you just call me old?”

Sherlock glared at him.

Not only was he glaring, he was also working himself into a pout.

“You can choose your reward now, if you'd like.”

Something changed in Sherlock’s face, when John said that.

“Anything I want?” Sherlock's voice was low and he didn't meet John's eye.

John could feel himself holding his breath.

“Within reason,” he found himself saying. He'd long since learned the wisdom of not giving any open promises to Sherlock. And then he regretted the words as soon as he saw some of that interesting light in Sherlock's eye go out.

“I can't think of anything,” Sherlock muttered, “that you could give me that I can't already have.”

“What do you mean?”

“I could ask you to do all the shopping for a month, but...” Sherlock shrugged. “You already do that, don't you? Should I ask you to give me free access to any one of your possessions? Because that would be pointless - I hardly consider limited access to be a problem as things stand.” John glared at him.

“Besides,” Sherlock said under his breath, “what's to say you'll still be here next year?”

John could feel his breath hitch.

“'Course I'll be here. Where else would I be?”

Sherlock didn't say anything. He didn't meet John's eye.

John did some quick calculations and it dawned on him out that since the two of them had met, they had actually spent much more time apart than they ever had together. He’d never thought of it quite like that. Sherlock was such an all-compassing presence in his life. It was a strangely sobering thought.

“Sherlock,” John said in a low voice. “I'll be here.” And he quickly grabbed Sherlock's hand and held on to it a few seconds.

They both looked down on John's hand. Sherlock looked as startled as John felt.

Handholding hadn't ever really been on their list of appropriate gestures. Except when handcuffed together on the run from the law, of course.

But this was different. Sherlock's large hand lay unmoving under John's. It was warm and solid and John liked the feel of it there. And John hoped that it somehow managed to convey to Sherlock that things were different now. There were different things on the horizon now. That John wasn't leaving.

John cleared his throat and inched his chair back.

“Right,” John said. “The five things. Number one: Ugly Christmas Sweaters.”

Sherlock stared at him in horror.

“I’ve never had one,” John continued, “and I’d like one. Preferably one that matches one that you are wearing. At the party.”

“What party?”

“Ah, that’s item number two. Our party.”

“We’re having a party?”

“Yup. A nice one. With mince pies and violin playing and a Secret Santa thingy.”

“… A what?”

“A Secret Santa. Where everyone brings a gift and then we draw lots when everyone’s here. It’s fun.”

Sherlock stared at him with undisguised horror.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “You don’t like cheap gifts that are _deliberately chosen_ to be impersonal. No one does.”

“No, I don’t,” said John cheerfully. “The best you can hope for is a bath bomb, really, and honestly, even if you do luck out and get one, odds are that Molly’s the one who bought it and it’s a glittery one.”

“But then… Why?”

“Why? Are you _seriously_ asking me why?”

Sherlock cocked his head, seemingly puzzled.

“Yes?”

“Hmm, let me think. Over the last few years the best Christmas I’ve had was the one where I got dumped on Christmas Eve and where our Christmas party was then interrupted by a trip to the morgue. Not a fun, work trip, but a trip where you knew the dead person personally.” John frowned. “Well, we thought you did, at any rate. And _that_ was, by far and large, the best Christmas I’ve had recently. The one where you murdered someone in cold blood wasn’t really special. I think it might’ve been worse than the one I spent in my bedsit and looked up ways of killing myself after being sent home from Afghanistan. And even _that one_ was better than the one right after you jumped of a building to your bloody and horrible death…” Sherlock winced but John kept going. “I also seem to remember one where I was recently engaged and had recently discovered that you weren’t dead after all and I was both furious and elated but I had no idea which parts of my life I was furious with and which made me feel elated. So yeah, not a lot of warm fuzzy feelings about Christmas. So I’m reclaiming them. With my list.”

“Your list.”

“Yup. And remember. A nice reward for you if you do good. A nice reward in ADDITION to all the lovely holiday cheer my list will bring both of us.”

“And what if I don’t?” Sherlock didn’t meet John’s eye.

“What if you don’t … What?”

“Do good.”

“Ah.”

John wasn’t sure what Sherlock was after. Telling him he’d be getting a lump of coal in his stocking seemed redundant. Sherlock was the main coal distributor of the house, after all.

“Well.” John coughed. “Then I guess there’ll be … Consequences.”

“Consequences?”

There it was again. That flicker on Sherlock’s face. And John was suddenly very aware of how close they were sitting to each other. The tone of the conversation had changed and John wasn’t quite sure why or how. He didn’t know what game they were playing but he decided that his next move had to be a calculated gamble.

“Punishment,” he said in a low voice. Not a whisper, but in a low, firm voice.

He didn’t think he imagined the quiver he detected in the set of Sherlock’s shoulders.

Interesting.


	2. Chapter 2

The third item on John’s list – baking cookies – was the first one he attempted to put into effect.

“Gingerbread?” he wondered out loud. “Something I can’t pronounce with cranberries and white chocolate and pistachios? Or your garden variety chocolate chip cookies? What do you fancy?”

Sherlock didn’t look up. “I’ve never had any problem with regular Hobnobs.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not baking Hobnobs. So, do you have an opinion?”

“Have you even considered what has been inside our oven?” Sherlock countered with. “Are you sure you really want to eat anything out of there?”

John took a deep breath and counted to ten.

“You are baking the cookies and you are eating the cookies,” he ground out. “Or else.”

The silence in the kitchen was deafening.

John grit his teeth and carried on. He found a recipe he liked the look of, he went to the shops and he gathered the supplies. He also placed in his basket a tiny, stupidly expensive box of chocolates that he intended to place on top of the refrigerator as the promised reward for good behaviour.

He couldn’t help, though, thinking that there was certain reason to assume that he wouldn’t need the chocolates. That he might need to be planning not only for rewards, but also for the… Consequences.

The idea was oddly intriguing.

So when John came home and Sherlock refused to stand up from his place on the sofa to help him put away the groceries, he didn’t put up a fuss.

When he asked Sherlock to chop the chocolate and was met with stony silence, he didn’t grumble.

When it was time to shape the cookies and Sherlock decided that this was prime time for a long, hot bath John didn’t say a word.

Sherlock came out of the bathroom, his curls damp and his skin flushed, just as John carefully moved the hot cookies from the sheet and on to a plate. He’d put on some Christmas music, the kettle had just boiled and he’d set the table for two.

“Good, you’re here,” John said. “Tea’s ready.”

“Oh, I’m not hungry,” said Sherlock, perfectly nonchalant, his eyes fixed on some distant point in the ceiling, as he sauntered towards the sofa.

Before he could reach it John was on him. His hand gripped Sherlock’s wrist tightly and his voice dropped low.

“Sherlock, we agreed. I’m making an effort. Is it really too much to ask that you sit down for four fucking minutes and eat a bloody cookie? Seriously?”

Sherlock stilled under his touch. John wasn’t sure, but he imagined that he could feel him holding his breath.

“I think,” Sherlock finally said, slowly and deliberately, “I’ll pass.”

John gripped his wrist harder.

“Are you sure?” he asked him. “Because I told you – there will be consequences.”

And John could feel it, could feel how his entire world was at this moment ready to tilt.

He waited.

“Like what?” Sherlock asked, sounding like a petulant child, his head cocked to the side. Like he was suggesting that there was nothing John could do to him that would matter one bit. Like there was nothing John could do that would matter to him.

With one, swift movement, John had him up against the wall. He twisted the arm he held behind Sherlock’s back and allowed Sherlock to feel – perhaps for the first time – just how much stronger John was.

Sure, Sherlock might very well beat him in a fight. The man spent hours on Youtube, learning new tricks, mashing up the best of martial arts from all corners of the universe. Sherlock was a clever opponent, quick, smart and vicious – but right then John allowed him to feel which of them was physically stronger.

Sherlock didn’t move.

John moved his lips right up to Sherlock’s ear.

He could feel Sherlock’s hitching breath where his back was pressed against John’s chest.

“Let me make this perfectly clear,” John growled. “We made a deal. About you either complying and getting a reward, or getting punished for not playing along. Now, you can back down anytime you like. You can tell me that we aren’t playing right now. You can sit down at the goddamn table with me and pretend to eat a cookie. But if you outright refuse, there will be consequences.”

This time there was no mistaking the hitch in Sherlock’s breath at the last word.

John tightened his grip. “So which is it, Sherlock?”

“I…” Sherlock whispered. “I outright refuse.”

John felt dizzy with… He wasn’t even sure what he was feeling. Arousal, certainly (and he’d need to unpack that later). A surge of power was there as well. To be in full control of the most extraordinary person he’d ever met was as humbling as it was exciting.

“Good,” John said as he let go of Sherlock’s wrist. “Don’t move.”

He let his eyes wander over the bookshelves, half-looking for a suitable book, before his eyes landed on that damned Moroccan slipper. Excellent. He grabbed the slipper and tipped out its contents before turning back to Sherlock, who was still facing the wall, head bowed, like John’s hands were still holding him in place.

“Legs shoulder width apart, please,” John said, and he could feel his mouth going dry.  
Sherlock complied at once. He was wearing his dressing gown and, John guessed, not much else.

“I told you what I expected of you, I told you why this was important to me, and in return you were rude and inconsiderate,” John told Sherlock. “You also highlighted that there isn’t much I could do to you that you wouldn’t just completely disregard. So I’m not going to give you a chore, I’m not going to make you sit on the naughty step, I’m not going to take any of your things away. You’re right. It wouldn’t work. So we’re dealing with this right here, right now.”

The cheery Christmas music John had been listening to as he baked the damned cookies was still playing in the background. The room was softly lit by a string of lights that John had placed in a pile in the corner and then plugged it in – intending to do something more ambitious to it later.

And there was Sherlock, facing the wall, head bowed. Waiting.

“Do you understand what I’m about to do?”

Sherlock nodded.

John didn’t think he imagined that his back arched the slightest bit, presenting his backside even better.

John cleared his throat. “I think ten is a good, round number to be getting on with.” He could feel that his breath was getting shorter and he clenched his free hand a few times before taking a stance on the right side of Sherlock.

Sherlock’s shoulders tensed a bit, but he didn’t protest.

The first blow rang out loudly in the room. Sherlock jerked but didn’t make a sound.

John considered making him count, but frankly, he had more sensory input at the moment than he knew what to do with. Right now, he just wanted to focus on getting through this thing.

That didn't mean he wanted to rush it, though. He felt hyper aware of his senses. The feel of the slipper in his hand, the slight of the nape of Sherlock's bent head, the all-encompassing smell of cookies in the air.

He raised the slipper again.

Sherlock twitched.

John found, to his surprise, that he wanted to hear him make a sound. He wanted to hear his voice.

He really put his back into the third blow.

He was rewarded with a whimper. This time there was no doubt about it, sherlock arched his back into the blows, offering up the underside of his bottom.

John was never one to deny himself something delicious. He took careful aim with the slipper and hit Sherlock right where his thighs met his arse, no doubt making his blood flow to all the right places.

Again John found himself wondering what Sherlock was wearing underneath the robe.

His hand was already in the air, flying downwards for the fifth smack when he fully registered that he was hard.

Damn.

Damn, damn, damn and triple damn.

Of course he'd registered, on some level, that this was way beyond what normal flatmate did. Obviously. He wasn't stupid.

Six.

He'd understood the playfulness in their interaction. Been intrigued at Sherlock's obvious interest in punishment.

He'd certainly been ready to react when met with outright defiance.

Seven.

But all of this this had been something that John knew on some basic level. Not something he'd thought about consciously or analysed.

Eight.

And there it was. That deep moan, ending in a shuddering breath.

God.

Nine.

A whimper.

Ten.

Something like a sob.

John wasn't sure which one of them had made it.

For a moment everything was silent in the flat. The slipper was hanging limply from John's hand. Sherlock hadn't moved from his position at the wall, still standing with his legs a shoulder width apart.

John ached to touch him.

But... They didn't. They didn't touch. They weren't the sort of matey friends who kept grabbing each other in one armed hugs, doling out slaps on the back like they were nothing.

But John couldn't... He couldn't just pretend it hadn't happened.

Could he?

He dropped the slipper on to the sofa table. The sound was loud in the silent flat.

He inched closer to Sherlock.

He could almost feel the other man tense. He could see his shoulders hunch, his legs inch together.

John stopped. He was standing right next to Sherlock, not saying a word, not touching. He took a deep breath.

He exhaled loudly. Inhaled again, through his nose.

Exhaled trough his nose.

Sherlock caught on quickly.

Of course he did.

The man was a genius. Breathing was hardly rocket science.

But still.

He caught on and he joined John. And for several long minutes, they stood there, Sherlock still facing the wall, breathing together. Catching their breath. Calming down.

John was focusing on not thinking. In. And out.

After what felt like a long while his heartbeat had steadied. He cleared his throat.

"Right," he said. "I hope we're clear now."

He wasn't even sure what he meant by that. Sherlock didn't even deign it with a reply.

"I suggest you try the cookies," he added. "They're pretty good."

And then he stalked upstairs to his bedroom. He had some serious thinking to do - but first he needed to take care of an urgent matter in private.

**Author's Note:**

> This has not been read by a beta and I'm not a native English speaker. This, unfortunately, means that there are errors in the text. I apologize for those - and would be deeply grateful if you would point them out to me, to spare me future embarrassment!


End file.
